


In and Out of Time Again

by luzial



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Correspondence, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Hopeful Ending, Letters, This Is How You Lose The Time War Elements, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:34:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 14,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27167327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luzial/pseuds/luzial
Summary: I’ve been curious about you for a while now. I think the first time I saw you was during that bad business in the Deep Roads in Strand 398. I was the hurlock, you were the Grey Warden recruit. Our eyes met as I bit into your commander’s neck.Solas and Lavellan are unlikely correspondents who reshape infinite versions of Thedas, each manipulating events of the world’s past to create the future their faction desires.
Relationships: Female Lavellan/Solas, Lavellan & Solas, Lavellan/Solas (Dragon Age)
Comments: 104
Kudos: 41





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to the incredible [@maerisk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maerisk/pseuds/maerisk) and [@akisazame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akisazame/pseuds/akisazame) for beta reading, and also for letting me agonize over getting this out of my head and into a document as quickly as possible so I didn't lose a single word in the process. I love you both.
> 
> This work was torn out of my heart and inspired by This Is How You Lose The Time War (by Amal El-Mohtar & Max Gladstone), which is everything a story should be.
> 
> [Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/57jOm46RIczpkmppDH7Gvs?si=YFPpxvxmTNq1vkfRsV8L1w) || [My Tumblr](http://https://luzial.tumblr.com/)

Song has had many names. The latest suits him no better nor worse than the others. If he has one complaint, it is that this name lacks specificity. Fen’Harel was a name that was a lie, and a lie that has long since become irrelevant, but he cannot argue that it painted a clear and awful portrait. His other name, the one that came both before and after, he is only too glad to be rid of. He rarely thinks of it now.

Song is in his element in Strands like these, when he can submit to the demands of his teeth and claws and blessedly forget the version of himself that is not like this. It is simple here in the verdant expanse of his home, his first love. When a mountain stands in his way he moves it with a thought. When a beating heart must be silenced, he rips into it and tastes warm blood on his tongue.

His assignment today is a wonderfully simple one: a death. The target is ancient and powerful, though only in comparison to the other things of its world. Beside an agent of Music, it is nothing. He longs for a crush of strength against his own and for the moment when uncertainty asks him whether he can snap his target’s neck before it breaks him in two. The answer, of course, is that he will hear the crack of bone and hold its dying form within his jaws too quickly to satisfy the hunger that burns within him.

Still, he will try to afford it a fair fight.

When he finds the edges of its lair, Song realizes something is wrong. Demons should swarm around him, challenging his right to intrude on their master’s territory even as he cuts them down. There should be whispers here, a choir of disembodied voices singing the Melody’s secrets for those who know how to listen. Yet all that greets him are emptiness and silence.

The raw Fade has begun to reclaim this place, the green waters of its currents rising up to erode the poisoned ground that has been here for three thousand years. Song wanders farther in, his paws sinking deep into the muck, until finally he finds the corpse.

The fear demon that claimed this part of the Fade is gone, reduced to a husk of tangled limbs and fangs that still drip with venom. Song has arrived too late. The death has already been administered, but this means that the timing is all wrong, and for Music, timing is everything. 

Whatever killed the demon has done so before it had a chance to strike a bargain with a young mage girl in Kirkwall. Now she will not murder her family and dozens of others; she will not leave alive one angry, orphaned sister. Thanks to this single fault in the rhythm, the entire Strand is lost.

Song is so annoyed by all the absences that at first he does not notice the addition. It is so impossibly out of place that for a moment he simply stares at it. Stuck to the venom on the dead demon’s fangs is a piece of finely-made paper that smells of sugar and flowers, its perfume somehow drowning the stench of the rotting carcass. He reaches out for it with a hand and fingers; it is a thing too delicate to be held by claws. The venom stings but he pays it no mind, for he has seen the single line written on the page in a delicate script:  _ Touch me with fire that I be cleansed. _

It must be a trap. Not the venom, of course. Whoever left this certainly knows it will take much more than that to wound him. It would be best to leave the note here and let it rot along with the rest of this discordant Strand. But this is a challenge and an invitation - words that hint at more words. 

Song ignites the paper between his fingers and it is as if he has turned the first page in a book. He reads, and when he is done he has become the wolf again, mouth twisted to a snarl. When he has committed the words to memory, he shreds what’s left of the sweet-smelling paper between his claws and grinds it into the mud.

When Song is gone, a shade steps into the pawprints he left and searches until it finds every piece of the burned, shredded, filthy paper.

* * *

Tell me I have sung to Your approval.

I’ve always been fond of the Canticle of Transfigurations, or at least of the versions that I’ve penned. Hopefully you have more than a passing familiarity with it as well, or the cosmic cleverness of what I’ve just done will be totally wasted on you. (But I suspect your familiarity is more than passing. If you are who I think you are, you’ve probably written versions of it yourself. If so, how do you deal with the bit in 10:1 about the moth and the flame? I feel like I can never get it quite ominous enough, you know?)

I’ve barely just begun and already I’ve distracted myself with all the questions I wish to ask you. But that just speaks to my point (that I’m about to make).

Is there anything in this world more insidious than words? It took me eight of them to grab your attention. Honestly, I could have managed it in fewer if I didn’t want to make a dramatic entrance. But I did.

I’ve been curious about you for a while now. It’s not like there are many things left to be curious about when you have all of time to catch up on anything you might have missed, so I should thank you for that novelty. I think the first time I saw you was during that bad business in the Deep Roads in Strand 398. I was the hurlock, you were the Grey Warden recruit. Our eyes met as I bit into your commander’s neck and tore out his windpipe. (Sorry about the mess, by the way - I really enjoy getting into character.)

You were definitely meant to lose that fight. I know - I’ve gone back and checked a  _ lot _ of other Strands and that recruit always dies, the darkspawn always swarm, and the Third Blight always begins. But then you single-handedly cut down the horde after everyone else in your party had died. (I know because I stuck around after you chopped off my head with that broadsword - I just had to see what would happen!) You killed enough of them to prevent the swarm, even though you died for it in the end. (And of course you died for it - you’re good but no one’s  _ that _ good.)

My point is: do you remember how it felt when that shriek bit into your arm and the Blight burned into your veins? Do you remember the way it spiraled into you, burrowing in your lungs and your heart and your gut until it felt like your body had always been its home? (I’ve been Blighted a  _ lot _ so I’ve got some pretty good descriptors for it.)

Anyway, let me spell it out in case my metaphors are getting too convoluted: In this letter, I’m the shriek and my words are the Blight. I’ve bitten you and poured my words into you. Your memory will pump them through your mind just as surely as your heart pumped the Blight to the tips of your fingers and toes. Want a cure? Too bad, there isn’t one.

I’m not only writing to gloat. I meant what I said above - I appreciate the novelty you’ve brought to the battlefield. Things are dreadfully dull most of the time. Mainly the Story sends me off to retcon the occasional plot holes your Music introduces to the narrative. There’s very little chance for improvisation, so I have to find amusement where I can.

And this has been very amusing. 

Sincerely,  
Ink


	2. Chapter 2

Ink loves her job. Is it still a ‘job’ when it’s her entire existence? She isn’t sure. But she loves it, all the same.

Ink knows there was a time when she was something other than what she is now. She knows this not because she can remember it, but because she has seen the evidence of it across a hundred thousand Strands. If she cared enough, and if she were willing to disobey the Author (which occasionally she is, depending what’s at stake), perhaps she’d go seek herself out. But the truth is that Ink loves who she is now far too much to be troubled by whatever small thing she used to be.

Ink has a vague sense that she was someone of importance, but there’s nothing novel about that idea. Across thousands of years and too many Strands to count, she’s been _everyone_ of importance. It’s a simple thing to kill an important person before they’re important and take their place. She’s been the Maker and all the Paragons, Emperors, and Archons. She’s been Calenhad and Queen Madrigal and Maferath. Of all of them, Andraste is her favorite. Ink always puts on a show when it comes time for the Lady of Sorrow’s death, writhing and moaning on the pyre as if being caressed by a lover rather than sacrificed to birth a new religion. She likes to believe all the greatest artistic depictions of Andraste in the flames are based on her performances.

But Ink’s greatest hits as Andraste aside (she ranks Strand 3287 as her best, with Strand 8802 as a close second), she’s well aware that it’s often the unimportant people who are most important to the Story. It’s even simpler to take the place of a queen’s handmaiden than it is the queen herself, and often the handmaiden is infinitely more useful to the Author’s plans. Ink doesn’t care if she’s a servant or a monarch - it’s the intoxicating thrill of infiltration itself that she craves. 

Ink has spent three dozen lifetimes training with the Crows. She’s killed for them and has been killed by them. In all of known history (and the known future), no one does infiltration better than they do, and she likes to learn from the best. Today, she’s back in Antiva City and it feels like a second home - or maybe it would if she had anywhere that really felt like a _first_ home. So, to revise: Ink is back in Antiva City and it feels like home.

She’s here to work but she arrived a little early to breathe the ocean air and visit the most perfect café in any Strand. Her favorite table is on the patio and has a scenic view of Rialto Bay. She claims it each morning and stays there until the sun sets, drinking espresso cut with frothy milk and eating a soft round of cheese drizzled with honey and walnuts. It occurs to Ink that she’s being a little bit celebratory. Maybe it’s premature, but it’s hard to remember sticking her letter to the demon’s fang and not feel like she deserves a treat.

In the evening of the second day, a body crash-lands on Ink’s table. It ruins her dessert and she is furious. And this is before she realizes whose body it is.

In thirty-two hours, there was scheduled an assassination attempt on a duke and she was here to prevent it. Assignments to guard are always more complicated than assignments to kill, but having the target deposited in her lap a-day-early-dead is a complication she hasn’t confronted before. Ink looks up to the rows of windows above the café but sees no one. 

_Well, shit,_ she thinks. The Author isn’t going to like this.

The rest of the café’s patrons are screaming, making a scene as they jump up from their dinners and run anywhere that is away from Ink and the corpse on her table. Their antics stir up the gulls that like to cruise the port below, and soon the birds have congregated, circling above her head. It takes her a minute to realize that their calls are too coordinated and harmonious, and that someone has encouraged them to make their own kind of music to celebrate Music’s triumph. 

Only then does Ink see the note. It’s tied around the handle of the dagger that someone planted in the duke’s back. She unrolls it and finds instructions: _Make me to rest in the warmest places._

Ink smiles and her fury fades away, even the ruined espresso forgotten. She likes the symmetry of proportional reciprocation, and whatever plans she had for this Strand are impossible now. So she wrenches the dagger from the duke’s back and drives it into her own heart. 

(Not exactly her own heart. To be more precise: Ink drives the dagger into the heart of the body she’s assumed today in Antiva. Her own heart - her true heart - is as impregnable as the Void.)

Ink reads the words that are written in the blood spilling from her chest and she laughs. She can’t remember a time she’s been this happy.

In the chaos that follows, the café’s patrons do not notice the shade that drags its finger across Ink’s plate, swirling together her spilled blood with the last of the honey.

* * *

My dear indelible Ink,

Forgive the crudeness of my stationary. It has been some time since I wrote a letter and I nearly forgot the importance of the medium. If you look closely, you’ll see that I carved my initials into the duke’s vertebrae. Not as elegant as Orlesian paper scented with vanilla and embrium, but I’d argue the effect is far more dramatic and the perfume much more pungent. I hope you appreciate both - I chose them with you in mind.

You quoted Andraste singing to the Maker and yet corresponded in the clumsy and limited instrument of writing. Now, in order to reply, I find myself forced into the same. An orchestral arrangement, gift-wrapped and hand-delivered to your cochlea would be much more fitting. But unlike your words - the evidence of which can be burned away in an instant - Music echoes through all eternity with its permanence. 

In short, Music is too dangerous for you. You believe that words are insidious, but surely you must know the tortuous delight of a melody that enters your mind and makes its home there, its notes like bricks that slowly wall you in. You believe you have infected me but I must argue that the opposite is far more likely. Why else would you have sought me out?

Will you scoff when you read these words, or perhaps laugh? I have seen you laugh before. The battle in the Deep Roads may have been the first time you noticed me but it was not the first time we met. Most recently, I remember you laughing as Andraste on the pyre in Strand 273. It was an odd dramatic choice and I can’t say it was as effective as some of your more iconic performances, particularly the one in Strand 8802. 

Now, to answer your question: The most common version of Transfigurations 10:1 is the one I composed. I prioritized lyricism over foreboding and found that I ended up with both. Sometimes one must begin with the form and move backwards to the function, though I am certain this is inconsistent with your side’s philosophy.

Out of professional curiosity: what can your Story possibly want with the life of this duke? In every Strand he is such a nuisance - but not an engaging nuisance, simply one that demands to be eradicated as quickly as possible. I have to imagine your interest in him is related to a certain conversation about imported wine he would have had with a certain comtesse, but I suppose I will have to wait until your next letter for confirmation.

Isn’t that an interesting proposal? Another letter from you to follow this reply from me. Perhaps you thought I would not respond to your initial correspondence. Or did you think you could resist the urge to open my letter once you saw the price of entry? You of all people must know that words demand to be read, just as Music demands to be heard. The urge to read and the urge to dance are equally irresistible. 

Now we find our composition is a round rather than a series of solos. The only question that remains is which of us will reach our cadence first.

Warm regards,  
Song


	3. Chapter 3

Lightning strikes the ocean’s surface less than a league away from the ship. Song tightens his grip on the rigging, twisting the rope around his wrist in case the surging waves knock him off his feet. With his free hand, he holds tight to his hat. 

Song adores this hat. He does try not to become attached to the transient things that make up a life in his assigned Strands, but every once in a while he finds an expertly-shaped tricorne hat crafted from the softest fennec-fur felt and trimmed with exquisitely intricate silver lace. This one he stole from a rival captain - who probably stole it from someone else - during an attempted raid on his ship. Now, what’s left of that pirate lies decomposing somewhere on the floor of the Waking Sea, and their perfect hat adorns Song’s brow most pleasingly.

The loss of the hat will be much more difficult to stomach than the loss of life to come. Song will drown, but that’s nothing new. He simply needs to ensure that the navigator, an energetic young dwarven woman, makes it onto a piece of sturdy debris that will eventually carry her back to shore long after this ship sinks. The experience will leave her scarred and anxious, but the shanties she composes will warn generations of sailors about the deadly things that call the Boeric Ocean their home.

Lightning flashes again, this time connecting with the ship’s bow and sending splinters of wood flying through the air. In the moment of illumination, Song sees that the cetus has finally come for them. Like a snake, it rises from the sea, towering over the mast and hissing down at them through needle-sharp teeth. Its eyes are two glowing orange pinpricks fixed on its prey, and electricty crackles across its smooth-scaled skin as it winds its tail around the hull.

Song’s ship is sturdy and well-maintained, but a ship has not yet been built that can withstand the strength of the cetus. The hull groans and cracks deafeningly around him, and the mast topples while his crew scream in pain and terror. At some miserable point, he discovers the hat is no longer on his head. 

Once he has seen his charge safely onto her debris, Song runs, then stumbles, then crawls his way to the helm. He grabs the wheel and hoists himself to a standing position as best he can. Song has always been a resolute believer in going down with the ship.

As he presses his forehead against the slippery wheel, Song feels new notches that have been carved into its wood. He runs his fingers across them and they slowly resolve into words. After he finishes reading, Song has just enough time to confirm that his perfect hat is perched on the head of the unconscious dwarven woman before the sea swells up to greet him. He smiles as he drowns.

When Song’s body reaches the ocean floor, the shade pulls a splinter from his finger.

* * *

To my ever-energetic Allegro,

Where did you get that hat?! Hopefully it doesn’t undo everything you’ve got going on here (it probably won’t) but I just couldn’t let something so perfect sink to the bottom of the ocean with that stupid dragon-snake or whatever it’s supposed to be. I can never remember what the official stance is on sea monsters. They’re only around in a handful of Strands and generally not ones the Story cares about, so it’s hard to keep track. One thing I do know is that they definitely don't deserve to eat a hat that majestic. 

But back to prior business.

Listen, I’m going to level with you about that Andraste performance in Strand 273. I was really just going through the motions that day. I was pretty bored and I wanted to see how people would react if their prophet died laughing. Can you _believe_ that it didn’t actually change a single word of the Chant? Devastating.

Your guess about the duke was competent. It’s true that the conversation he has with the comtesse is essential in a lot of Strands. But that’s not why I was supposed to protect him. There’s a moment farther along - a quiet day he spends at home, until the quiet is interrupted by shouting from the street outside his window. He looks out and sees a young man joking with some friends and decides on an impulse that he’s going to hire the Crows to kill him (which is honestly crazy but you’re right that the duke is an asshole - er, _nuisance)._ The young man he wants dead is essential to - well, let’s just say “other plans” in Strand 47, and there’s a nice way we can weave together a character-building brush with death with a first experience of unrequited love. The outline _looks_ like a mess but, I swear, when you see the draft you’ll be amazed at how well it works.

Anyway, thanks to your interference we won’t be able to write our transition so tidily. But don’t worry - we never throw away any of the writing we don’t use. We always hold on to it to put it somewhere else in the Story. Nothing goes to waste.

Hey. Quick question: You said the Deep Roads wasn’t the first time we met. But it also sounds like my apocryphal Andraste act wasn’t it either. You chose your words carefully there; I could feel your hesitation in the dagger’s thrust. So - are you going to tell me? On the one hand, now I desperately want to know. On the other, I haven’t read a new mystery in _so long._ I don’t want to just skip ahead to the last chapter.

Do you read much? Or is that against Music’s rules? What do you do for fun? Or do you have fun? You may have noticed that you caught me on a bit of a lunch break in Antiva. I enjoy people-watching and drinking fancy coffees and eating little delicacies, even if the same people walk by in every Strand and the changelessness of the refreshments is comforting and infuriating in equal measure. Your interruption was, surprisingly, a welcome distraction.

I look forward to your reply,  
Ink


	4. Chapter 4

Every Strand has an Arlathan. Ink hates them all. She hates the stench of the magic that saturates the air and makes the inside of her head itch. She thinks the people who made this place were gluttons who couldn’t understand that the smell of one rose bush is enchanting but the smell of ten thousand of them is enough to make anyone vomit. She hates the way the light gleams off the golden spires, and that her eyes squint at the harshness of it even though she  _ knows _ these eyes no longer need to squint. That’s the part she hates the most: that her body believes she must bend and bow to this place, no matter how much she fights against it.

Ink takes a perverse pleasure in watching each Arlathan fall. The city is an ouroboros, a great dragon that feasts on its own tail until it devours itself completely. But unlike the alchemists of old who believe this is a symbol of rebirth and immortality, Ink has seen the truth. The dragon eats itself because it is too stupid and too hungry to do anything else. 

It always ends the same way.

She runs through the hallways of Vir Dirthara as it crumbles around her, spilling papers and books from shelves that crack like thunder as they fall. Ten steps ahead of her there is a man she needs to save. He’s carrying seven parchments that will lay the foundation for everything this Strand will ever know about Elvhenan. But he is running toward a statue that is about to fall on his head and Ink knows (because she’s saved this idiot in at least three other Strands) that he will not see the danger until it lands on him.

It’s a split-second thing to pull off and one of the few times in her work that she can’t afford distraction. So of course that’s when a book flies directly into her face, open to a page where all letters are rearranging themselves into her name. 

She freezes time - but not to gain an extra second to save the man who carries the parchments. Thanks to her hesitation he’s already been crushed and the seven texts lay crumpled all around him, lapping up his blood until they’re stained beyond recognition. No, Ink freezes time to read the words Song has left for her because the book is already on fire and she cannot bear to lose one letter to the flame.

Ink has left by the time the shade appears. As the ground falls away beneath it, the shade gathers the ashes of the burning book. 

* * *

My intriguing Atramentum, mysterious as the moonlight, 

Let me tell you a secret: I loathe Arlathan. Does it scandalize you to read this? It certainly scandalizes me to write it. Perhaps you do not know enough about me or about Music to appreciate how intrinsically tied to this city we are. And perhaps if you were unaware of that fact, you would be so kind as to omit it from any reports you forward on to your superiors? (‘Superiors’ is an odd term here. I have seen enough of your work to appreciate its finesse and brutality. Surely there are none on your side who can be considered superior to you.)

Parentheticals aside, I must confess that my hatred for this city is eternal. It is, to me, a tragic waste of potential. In a place where inhabitants could learn all and feel all, division blossoms in every Strand. What should have endured for ages as a centerpiece of knowledge and empathy is always brought low by the clarion call of greed. Worse still, Arlathan never goes quietly. It takes the whole world with it.

But I’m being grim, and you asked what I do for fun.

I do love to read. I’ve read every book in the library that is now burning around you. I’m sure you have as well. Story and Music are far from incompatible, no matter how many times we’ve been told this is true. The idea that they must exist separately, or are not inherently tied to one another, is nonsensical. What is poetry but words that ring with music? What is melody but music that tells a story? 

I agree that flânerie has a certain charm. There is a practical aspect, of course, in the sense that the more one watches the better he can become at imitating the peculiarities of his targets. And while it is true, more often than not, that individuals in one Strand go about the same movements as their counterparts in another, every once in a great while there will be some inconsistency that can be attributed to neither Melody nor Story. Finding these random moments of variation - tiny hints of improvisation that do not compromise the harmony of the Strand - is something I find particularly rewarding.

Now, to immediate concerns. Do not worry about the man and his texts you failed to save. I have arranged for a Librarian to come along shortly and they will reverse any damage that has been done to the parchments. After, those precious papers will flutter gently to the ground below and in precisely fifty-three thousand six hundred and twenty-nine days they will be discovered by someone who will more or less serve the same purpose as the man with the now-crushed skull would have. Our correspondence is most important to me and I cannot risk drawing the attention of your side due to an unprecedented dip in your job performance.

Write to me in Val Royeaux next.  
Song

P.S. I, too, would hate to spoil the mystery of our first meeting for you. Instead, I’ll tell you this: It wouldn’t require skipping ahead to the end. It would mean rereading the beginning.


	5. Chapter 5

Song should hate this city as much as he hates Arlathan, if not more. After all, Val Royeaux is guilty of the same excesses and atrocities. It is corrupt to its very core; so dependent upon everything it despises that the certainty of its eventual failure is absolute. And yet there is a kind of deranged hope in its unwillingness to acknowledge this truth. Val Royeaux hides its decay beneath a fresh coat of gilt and makeup, and somehow lives to see another day. Song has never been capable of hope in the face of certain destruction, but he does greatly admire this quality in others.

When Song needs respite from Music’s unending march of demands, he finds himself here. Fine wine and delicious cakes are readily available, but it is the easy access to art supplies and scenes worthy to be put to canvas that lure him the most. In some Strands he will stake a claim in an outdoor bistro, offering charcoal sketches to the diners while they wait. If he desires a longer stay, he will find a patron and spend decades refining the style he chooses for himself in that lifetime. He has been an Impressionist and a Modernist, he has dabbled in both the Abstract and the Surreal. Sometimes he paints landscapes, sometimes portraits, often a face he cannot forget even though he knows he should.

Today he has chosen to work only for his own pleasure rather than to seek the validation of selling his art. Song has arranged his watercolors and easel next to a large stone fountain in a deserted garden. He listens to the steady stream of water that pours from a carved lion’s mouth, and takes his brush in his fingers. There is a single, extremely ripe apple dangling from a branch on the opposite side of the garden from where he sits, and he intends to replicate it in exacting precision for the next several hours.

Instead, he recites Ink’s letters in his mind. He has memorized them, of course, as they are designed to fade away as soon as they’ve been read once. It’s a necessary precaution for both of them, but he can’t help but wish he had something more tangible to remember her by. Song shakes his head at this - she is truly as insidious as she warned him if her words have made him want something so dangerous. Still, he drafts five new letters that he can never put to paper and stores them away in his memory in the hopes that Ink will write to him enough times that he can use them all.

When he has neatly filed away each word he may never send, a strange new longing swells to crescendo in Song’s chest: He wishes Ink were here.

Song has always been comfortable alone. Solitude was a part of him even before he became who he is now. There were times in the very distant past when it challenged him, when he imagined something different. Now his lifetimes are filled with so much forced camaraderie - each time he assumes a new identity there are relationships to forge, expectations to manage, responsibilities to fulfill - that he has often longed for the quiet moments like this one when he can be nothing and no one other than himself. Yet today, the desire is different.

The paintbrush hangs lazily from Song’s fingers, his drying palette of colors nearly forgotten, when he sees Ink.

Somehow, he knows her even as she wears a face he’s never seen before, half-covered by a mother-of-pearl mask. She shouldn’t be here. Warning bells will ring on both sides; agents cannot coexist in the same Strand at the same time without express permission for such a confrontation. This isn’t the way things are done. And to the extent they’ve been circumventing the ‘way things are done’ recently, they’ve proceeded with the unspoken agreement that they will do so without the terrifying prospect of being _seen_. 

Song blinks and Ink is gone, and he is furious with himself. But his anger quickly melts when his gaze returns to the apple he’d all but forgotten. In what was once a perfect specimen, the beginning of a bruise now proudly flourishes. It is small and has not yet purpled the apple’s skin, as though someone has simply pressed her thumb into it hard enough to leave a mark.

He hurries to the tree and devours the apple, mark and all, savoring the cloying sweetness of the bruise's imperfection. When he has wiped the last of its juice from his lips, Song returns to his canvas and paints the words that form on his tongue. 

After Song has cleaned his brushes and palette and is gone, the shade slips into the garden and claims the apple’s core for itself. 

* * *

To my springtime Songbird,

I’m sorry I startled you. I don’t understand why I did. I should have known better. I _do_ know better. I just - I can’t explain. I’m just sorry.

Thank you for what you did in the library. You didn’t need to help me or help the Story and I don’t really understand why you did. I guess I haven’t done a very good job repaying you for that today. I hope I haven’t put you in a bad spot with Music. (That was, originally, the point of this whole exercise. But now I realize that if our letters were to be discovered it would mean the end of this conversation and I don’t think I’m ready for it to end yet.)

Maybe this is too personal or maybe I’m overstepping a boundary (too late), but - are you alright? I found you sitting there in the garden with your easel and your paints and I thought I’d just watch you for a little while but the expression on your face was so strange. I’ll admit I only spent an hour or so looking at this particular face so maybe I’ve got it all wrong. Maybe you look like that all the time. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that you seemed so lonely. And I guess that’s why I stupidly decided to step out of the shadows for a millisecond or two. 

Are you? Lonely, I mean.

You told me one of your secrets so I’ll tell you one of mine: I’m tired. Exhausted, really. I do love my work but it’s hard to maintain enthusiasm for it when our progress is so miniscule that you could easily assume there’s been no progress at all. Conceptually, I understand that the stalemate is The Thing. It prevents all the Strands from unraveling into total chaos. But I keep remembering what you said about the Story and Music being tied to one another, and I can’t help but wonder: what’s the point of it all? 

I’ve been thinking about going back to the beginning. Maybe you’re right and I can get some answers there. If nothing else, it’s probably a good idea for me to lay low for a while. I don’t think either your side or mine will be too happy with me. Best to give them a few centuries to cool off. 

Fondly,  
Ink


	6. Chapter 6

Ink darts out of one Strand and into another, hiding for two years or two hundred at a time. She chooses her path at random until finally she no longer feels the eyes of the Author on the back of her neck. When she has tangled herself in enough plot threads to confuse the Story itself, only then does she speed toward her true destination.

It is expressly forbidden for any agent of either side to travel to Strand 1. This was settled by a treaty early in the war, when everyone realized this specific Strand was too essential to everything that happened downthread to risk unraveling it. But Ink doesn’t want to unravel it. She knows how to stay hidden and won’t make a mess of things. She doesn’t need to touch. She only wants to look.

What she sees is more confusing than she expected. There is a woman here who Ink recognizes. She can’t remember being this woman - this _Lavellan_. But when Ink looks at Lavellan’s face she knows they are one and the same. She understands that this small thing is what she was before the Story made her something more. 

Ink should hate this. She doesn’t like being reminded she was once small. But she doesn’t feel hate when she looks at her small-self. She is intrigued. She wonders what it was like to live one life thinking it was the only one she had. She contemplates experiencing pain and fear as if they might end her rather than being the only stimulating moments in an otherwise mundane existence. 

She follows Lavellan for years. She jumps back and forth in the forbidden Strand, watching her small-self first as a child and then as a crone. Ink can sense the moment when Lavellan’s thread decouples from the Strand that birthed it - the day she is reborn as an agent. But the secrets of that day are hidden elsewhere, far upthread, as are the moments of rebirth of all the Story’s agents. They are kept safe and hidden so Music can’t tamper with them.

Ink sees the small-selves of Story’s other agents in this Strand, too. She even sees a man who she thinks could be the Author, but his eyes are so much kinder than the ones she has come to know. (He still likes the word ‘shit’ the best and this is what tips her off.) And, of course, Ink sees Song. After all, it is Song she has come to see, even more than herself.

Song calls himself Solas here. He is smaller in this Strand but not as small as the rest of them. He is hiding his expanse behind a clever tongue and tattered clothes. Ink watches him with confusion until she finally begins to understand: he is infiltrating.

But Song is not an agent yet, so his infiltration is imperfect. Ink laughs as he stumbles: when his pride drives him to speak of knowledge he shouldn’t have; when he insists on twisting his words to the point of nonsense rather than embrace the simplicity of a lie; when he inexplicably falls in love.

This is when Ink starts following Song - _Solas_ , she reminds herself - instead of Lavellan. She marvels at his capacity for self-sabotage. Where is all his ruthlessness? Where are his snapping teeth and blood-soaked claws? Why does he despair in dark corners when he thinks no one is watching? Why does he willingly make himself so small?

Ink finds Solas impenetrable. When he should savor his triumphs and press his advantages, he shies away from them instead. He is the one thing in this Strand she is tempted to touch. She wants to destroy him and take his place, if only so she can demonstrate how to do the job correctly. It’s a question of professional integrity. The only thing that stops her is the understanding that Solas will one day become Song (and, to a lesser extent, knowing she would break a treaty that prevents all of time from unraveling). 

She is dogging his footsteps on a night when he visits Lavellan. Ink’s small-self invites Solas to her bed without hesitation. From the balcony, behind thick window panes frosted with snow, Ink looks on as the body that was once hers is infiltrated by the body that was once Song’s. She watches herself die little by little in his hands and in his mouth. Then she presses her ear against the frozen glass to hear the words they whisper to one another before they sleep.

The snowflakes that dance in the night air envelop Ink. They land on her eyelashes and she blinks them into herself. They melt on her cheeks and nose and she absorbs them into her skin. She opens her mouth and swallows the ones that land on her tongue. She should have known Song would risk destroying a treaty to leave a letter for her here. When all the snow is gone and the sky is clear, she begins to read.

Some time later, the shade gently scrapes Ink’s frozen tears from the window. 

* * *

My perfect Pigment, spilled across the page,

Have you enjoyed seeing what we were? Did you expect more tenderness, more ferocity? Or did you remember enough to expect anything at all?

Did you wonder how you were with me? I wondered how you were with others. You never recited poetry as you kissed my collarbone like you did for the dark haired housemaid in Strand 3308. You never tied my wrists and ankles to the bedposts as you did to the bard in Strand 596, though perhaps we might have negotiated such an arrangement in time. 

We never built a home with grey stone walls tucked away beyond a field of lavender. We were never adopted by a tortoiseshell cat who appeared on our doorstep and wouldn’t leave. We never grew old together listening to the rain tap its rhythm against our windows as we fell asleep each night. I did not die in your arms as you told me that, from the very first moment, you knew I was yours. (I admit that thinking of the one who loved you in Strand 93951 poisons me with an inconvenient and inappropriate dose of jealousy.)

You asked if I am lonely. 

Music’s work is more solitary than your own. In theory, the Melody itself sustains us. It comforts us. It loves us. With it, we are never alone. There was a time when that was sufficient. But recently, and especially when I watch you living beside those who love you dearly in Strands where I can never touch you, I find that the Melody is no longer enough. 

Forgive me for asking, but I cannot help myself: Did you love them, any of them? I see you in this, our illicit Strand, laughing at the man I was for failing so completely at what he set out to do. I see you smiling at his weakness and find I do not disagree. He was weak. A bad liar. Unlike you.

Yours,   
Song


	7. Chapter 7

Only a few of the Strands have celestial quirks, and Song has a superstitious aversion to all of them. He considers it, therefore, a bad omen when Music summons him to a version of Weisshaupt behind which two yellow moons hang low in the night sky.

He hurries through long hallways and tight corners, pushing against the tide of Wardens who run in the opposite direction. The darkspawn horde roars through every window, its discordant cries mingling with the enraged barks of the griffons and their riders. Weisshaupt is under siege but Song cannot recall if, in this Strand, they will be saved when Drakon’s army marches north or if the Grey Wardens' fortress will be dragged down into the Abyss.

Since the incident in Val Royeaux, Song has been composing symphonies of lies in his head that might explain what happened. He believes there is a chance, albeit a small one, that he can convince Music it was all an unfortunate misunderstanding. He may be delusional, but Song thinks he can make it work.

When Song enters the First Warden’s office, his confidence wavers. Music perches on the edge of a giant oak desk with feet carved into griffon claws. She wears the uniform of the First Warden, though she has been unable or unwilling to hide her golden eyes and the shadow of horns that curl away from her temples. Music’s vice is that she likes to be remembered.

“Sit,” she commands, and Song does.

“Strange business in Strand 758,” Music says. “The Author disavows any responsibility for his agent’s actions. He claims she is working outside the Story. He says her current whereabouts are unknown. But he does know where she _has_ been.”

Music plucks a piece of paper from her desk, hands it to Song. He looks it over, his face perfectly neutral, then hands it back.

“You see what she’s been doing?” Music asks, and Song knows better than to answer. “Over and over she has crossed her threads with yours. It is a clear and deliberate attempt to contaminate you, despite the treaties against such tactics. The Author says he will revise her if he can find her. I would much prefer that we catch her first and put an end to this problem once and for all.” 

Song nods. There’s nothing else he can do. 

“Fortunately, she has designed herself to be the instrument of her own destruction. This obsession she has with you will drive her to seek you out. I believe she desires acknowledgement from you. It would signal to her a weakness in your armor. You will provide her with the acknowledgement she wants - with, of course, the careful assistance of several of your fellow agents, who will help you to poison it.”

Song nods again. He tries not to taste the bite of apple that still lingers in his mouth. 

“Nevarra. Strand 39. The sooner the better. I need this matter resolved _immutably_ so you can get back to work.” Music waves her hand, conducting his dismissal, and Song goes.

He leaves Weisshaupt and hears the groan of its stones behind him, its defenses clawed away brick by brick beneath the might of the horde. When he has walked far enough through the yellow grasses of the Anderfels that he can no longer see the fortress behind him, Song runs. He jumps into the next Strand, centuries ahead, and lands next to a pond flanked on either side by halla statues covered in vines. He shivers from the misty cold and stares blankly into the waterfall that cascades down the back of the clearing.

It has always ended here, anyway.

Song digs his hands into the dirt at the water’s edge. A pebble finds its way to the palm of his hand, its edges too sharp. It is out of place - it could not have lain here for long and remained unchanged by the rush of water that eventually grinds everything to silt. He grips it tight and reads the words written in the pinch of pain against his skin. When he has read it a dozen times, Song gets to his feet and lets the pebble slip through his fingers to the mud at his feet.

The shade stands behind Song as he reads. When Song drops the pebble, the shade grabs it, runs the cutting edge across its palm, and is gone.

* * *

Dear Song,

I have only ever known love as a beautiful lie. I adore the theater of it. The poetry and the excess are intoxicating. The anticipation of the words that cannot be taken back amounts to more than the words themselves. How can I not be intrigued by such an idea? Lovers say more with silence than they do with language. It is a subversion of everything the Story values but also we can’t get enough of it. Every story is about love, at least a little bit. Even this one.

I have never loved. I believed that about myself. There was no need for the true thing when the illusion of it is often closer to what the target wants anyway. But perhaps it’s time for me to stop lying.

(No, of course it isn’t. What I have in mind will require _so_ many more lies than I’ve already told and they’re going to have to be really, really good ones. Fortunately, this is my specialty.)

What I should have said is: perhaps it’s time for me to stop lying _to you._

You asked if I remembered what we were. I didn’t. Despite current evidence to the contrary, I have generally been an obedient agent to the Story. I was instructed not to visit Strand 1 so I didn’t. I had no memory of what I used to be there, or of what you used to be.

But now I know, and I remember. I’m not sure whether I remember because I ran up and down that Strand fourteen times and memorized every word we spoke to each other, or because she is still part of me and I’d simply forgotten until now. I tattooed everything you said to me on my still-beating heart and while that may sound like nothing more than hyperbole, I swear to you that if you clawed open my ribcage you would see the truth in the ink that spilled through your fingers.

Here is one thing he (Solas) said to her (Lavellan): “What we had was real.” I remember that meant the world to her. She hung on to those words when she had very little else she could hang on to. Are you asking me (Ink) if I can honestly tell you (Song) the same?

I can’t wait for you to reply before I answer my own question. I talked a lot about anticipation a few paragraphs ago, and I meant it when I wrote it. But maybe this is how I know I’m not lying anymore - because I cannot imagine writing one more word without telling you I love you.

I love you. I love you and it’s not a lie. I love you and I hope you can believe me when you’ve seen all the lies I’ve told to all the people who have loved me.

I love you and what we have is real.

Yours,  
Ink


	8. Chapter 8

“You’ve been ruffling some feathers, kid.”

The Author peers at Ink over a mug of ale, and she shuffles irritably on the hard wooden bench. She will never understand why the Author insists on conducting all of his business here, in the shittiest bar that has ever existed, when he could choose from any location in all of history.

“Is that so?” Ink asks, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Now, don’t get prickly with me.” The Author shakes his head at her. “I’ve gone out on a bit of a limb for you. I’ve bought you some time at the expense of maybe breaking every treaty we’ve ever made and throwing the known universe into chaos.”

“Sorry,” she mumbles into her untouched ale.

“It’s alright. I get it. Sometimes you’re drafting, you hit on a good idea, and you just have to see it through.”

Ink nods but doesn’t meet his gaze.

“But the thing is, kid, I really do need to know about all the drafts. I’ve got to keep things in order, add them to the outline, make sure the Story doesn’t get any more complicated than it already is.” 

When Ink still doesn’t reply, the Author lets out a long sigh before he continues.

“We’re making moves downthread. I know it doesn’t always feel like it. But that’s because you’re looking at a chapter and I’ve got the whole novel in front of me. Your work has been great - aside from these few recent issues. So I tell you what: you’ve earned some R&R. It’s time for you to take it. 

“I need you off the grid. Music is not amused, and you know how that shit always ends. Get out of her hair for a while and hopefully I’ll be able to convince her I’ve brought you back to the fold.”

“Alright,” Ink agrees. She stands, prepared to leave.

“You do understand what I mean by ‘off the grid,’ right?” The Author fixes her with a stare that is all too knowing. “Whatever this is that’s going on with you and one of Music’s agents, it ends now. Don’t get in his way again. If she decides to come after you, there’s not much I can do about it. And you know what her idea of justice looks like.”

“I understand,” she says. 

She can’t tell if the Author is entirely convinced, but he nods that she can go. On her way out the door, she slaps her hand on the wall and rips down a postcard that was pinned there.  _ Weather's been lovely! _ says its text, over a painting of a stormy lake. When she reaches the docks, she drops the card in the dirty water and reads until it sinks.

Below the surface, the shade catches the postcard in its hands, then swims away.

* * *

Dear Ink,

It is the greatest unfairness that I must be brief. I thought I would have all the time in the world to write this letter, and that if I got it wrong I could simply begin again in the next. I have searched every book written and all the memories in every Fade in desperate hope that, somewhere, some poet or some shepherd has already put to words what it’s like to feel how I do for you. If the sentence already exists, then I won’t have to write it myself and risk putting one word out of place. 

But I must speak, knowing that what I say will be insufficient. 

“I love you” is a call and response. The one who calls gathers all her courage and plunges headfirst into uncharted waters. The one who responds follows in her wake. You have always been brave when I have shown my cowardice. Why should it have surprised me that the same would be true again?

I love you. How could I not? 

And that makes what comes next so much worse.

Music knows. The Author, too. Perhaps you’ve already faced a confrontation similar to the one I’ve just come from. They know you sought to corrupt me, to turn me from the Melody into something of your own creation. Music believes you are awaiting my reply - a reply which will be poisoned with words to enact your death.

I must write the reply that Music demands. Disobedience to the Melody is not the same as diversion from the Story. There are no alternatives for me. 

I have but one method to ensure your safety: this letter. Let it be the last you read from me. Another will come, but you must not read it. There will be nothing for you there but death.

Then, when you do not die, Music will see her plan has failed. Perhaps she will believe you have given up on me, moved on to other schemes, or the Author alerted you to her plans just in time. Whatever she thinks, eventually the danger will pass. You will be alive and will go on living. But I cannot be part of it. Every word we exchange puts you in greater danger. 

Know that I hate to ask this of you. But if the loss of your words is the price I must pay to spare you from the death Music plans for you, I will pay it. 

I beg you to forget me. Erase my letters from your memory. Free yourself from my foolishness. I promise to be the keeper of the words we exchanged. In this way, some part of what we had will endure, and you will still be safe. I will hold our letters in my heart. I will never forget them, as I will never forget you.

-S 


	9. Chapter 9

With death surrounding him, Song crafts Ink’s destruction. He works in silence in a hidden crypt deep within the bowels of the Grand Necropolis. Music has provided his workshop, as well as the reanimated skeletons that are here to help - or more likely surveil - his work. The agents Music has shoved inside piles of discarded bones bring him the rare materials and delicate tools he needs for a job like this. Then they retreat to the shadows and peer at him with veilfire eyes and mute, macabre grins that make it perfectly clear how happy they are to report back on his every move.

Song will send Ink her death between the pages of a book. His attendants nod their approval at this; they like its simple irony. They do not see (or Song hopes they cannot see) that the choice of book itself will scream to Ink the truth of what it is. He has already warned her, yes. But he crafts more and more warnings into the poisonous thing so that there can be no possible doubt. 

Yet Song doubts. 

He has seen what happens when he warns Ink away from him. It was another lifetime, another world, but he has made this same plea to her before. He has begged her to turn her back, to forget him - to save herself by losing him. He asks this of her because he is not capable of it himself.

And so, Song writes a letter that he hopes Ink will never read. He buries it in the poisoned book. If Ink reads it, she will die doing so. Song wants to believe that the person Ink is now will value saving herself more than she does reading his final words to her. But if she does read and if she does die, Song will be there with her in the only way he can. He cannot bear to think of Ink being alone at the end.

His work done, Song leaves the book with his attendants. They will see it to Music’s care, and it will ultimately be her decision when and where to plant the poisoned trap. This final task will not be entrusted to him. He has done everything he was assigned to do.

When he emerges from the Necropolis, the sky above Nevarra City is beautiful and clear. A cool wind blows from the south, rustling the silks that drape the city’s statues in preparation for the autumn pageants that will soon begin. There are no trees in this part of the city, and yet a leaf spirals down from somewhere above and catches itself against Song’s shoulder. He takes it, reads it, and crushes it in his hand. What is left of it falls into a crack in the cobblestones beneath his feet. 

The shade digs its fingernail into the joints between the stones and scoops out all that remains of the leaf.

* * *

Dear Song,

So be it.

-I


	10. Chapter 10

As a rule, Ink does not ponder the sacred. One consequence of playing the roles of every major religious figure in known history is an inability to find faith in any of them. Yet she’s drawn to a place venerated by Lavellan’s people: a forest thick with ancient trees and elven graves. She has already chosen the spot that will belong to her.

Ink perches in a tree that’s a hundred feet tall, maybe more. She presses her back against its trunk and extends her legs in front of her on a branch that’s as thick as a table. It took her all morning to climb up - she could have done it any number of easier ways but she wanted to feel the bark beneath her nails and the exhaustion in her muscles when she reached the top. 

Waiting for her here is a book. It’s decorated with a ribbon of deep red - the color of blood, of Blights, of murder. She tears it off. 

There’s a letter - an actual, boring, pen-to-paper letter - sitting on the book’s cover, and this too is a warning. To think that they would communicate in something so dangerously physical! To think that they’d write in a way so hopelessly mundane! The idea is offensive, and Ink clenches her teeth as she rips the envelope open.

 _To Ink_. Generic. _Your attentions are intriguing_. Boring. _I wish to learn more_. Wrong. All wrong. He would ask and tantalize and challenge. _Read the book as a show of good faith and perhaps we can meet again_ \- blah, blah, nonsense. She can hardly bear to read the rest before she shreds it to pieces. There is nothing of Song in this letter and so Ink discards it like the rubbish it is.

Ink turns her attention to the book itself and laughs out loud when she realizes what it is: a freshly-printed copy of _Hard in Hightown._ This novel’s existence, its ending, even its diction, are so similar in every version that it may, in fact, be the most constant thing across all the Strands. Even this specific copy invites no curiosity or hope for novelty. If it were used, she might find some interesting marginalia, or clues in the dog eared pages as to which passages its former owner loved most.

But, no. She said she longed to read a new mystery and instead Song has handed her the most common and consistent one of all. 

His message couldn’t be clearer.

Ink opens _Hard in Hightown_ to the first chapter.

She hears the Melody underneath the words from the opening sentence. It pours into her mind, just as Song promised it would in his very first letter to her. It’s not a symphony or even a movement. It’s a single measure, a crushing handful of notes, that spirals into her, burrowing into her ears and eyes and mind. There is nothing beautiful in it; it isn’t even harmonious. It should not rightly be called ‘music.’ But as it repeats and repeats, growing in volume and urgency, Ink begins to understand. 

This is what the Melody sounds like to the uninitiated. It will poison her, just as promised.

Already the clamor makes reading difficult. But Ink cannot stop now. She ignores the pounding in her forehead and the blood that seeps from her ears. She reads and reads, wishing she could go faster to end her own suffering, wishing she could go slower to savor the last pieces of Song she will ever know. For she has found what he has hidden of himself.

It is a delicate thing, so quiet beneath the swell of the Melody’s relentless march. She tastes rebellion in the quiver of its notes. It is audacious in its longing, fearless in its timbre. It is the most beautiful and desperate song she has ever known.

It bolsters Ink enough to do one more thing before the end. She rips the last page from _Hard in Hightown_ and writes a letter of her own. She folds it, puts it in her pocket, and lays her aching head on the branch.

Song sings, only for her.

* * *

Please, Ink. 

If you’ve read only this, there is still time to stop. If you’ve come one sentence further it may still not be too late. But please, stop now. Turn back. Throw the book from your hands and avert your eyes. Run from your perch - fly if you still can - and seek your own side to try to heal you before the Melody crushes you beneath it. Your wounds will be grave and your recovery long, but you could yet live.

I take back what I wrote before - you do not have to forget me. Keep my letters if you must. It will be a danger to you but not so great as the one you face now. Imagine our correspondence continuing throughout the ages. Imagine all the ways I would have told you I loved you if we’d only had more time. (And imagine all the jokes we might have told one another about the absurdity of two people such as us running out of time.)

But please. Please. First you must put down the book.

I am yours,  
Song

* * *

Ink. My Ink. My Love. My Heart.

Why do you persist? There is nothing I could say that could be worth the pain you now feel. In writing this letter I knew I laid the seeds for your temptation, and so there was a moment when I thought to still my hand. But my greater fear was that the seeds had been sown long, long ago and that you would read regardless. I could not suffer the thought of you reading that cursed, poisoned book and finding nothing but your own destruction waiting for you there.

Do you understand why I had to write this? Can you forgive me for doing so? Can you please, please stop?

You will think you can beat the poison in your head but you cannot. _Even you_ cannot. If it were a question of willpower alone, you would have destroyed it with a look. But the Melody is coiled around the soul of this world; we could not exist without it. And once it winds itself around your mind and remaps the chambers of your heart, you belong to it forever. 

I love you and I am sorry,  
Song

* * *

Oh, Vhenan. 

You’ll have made it here. I know you will. I knew it as I wrote this. I knew it as I wrote to beg you to let my last letter be my last. You are stubborn and brave and brilliant and loved.

We are running out of time. 

I cannot know when you will succumb so I will say all the things I would wish for you to hear last: I love you. I have tried and tried to find a way to love you that does not end in your destruction, and yet I always fail. I have been selfish in loving you. It should be me in your place. It was I that told you how to seek out our secrets. It was I who responded when I could have let your letter rot on the demon’s teeth, knowing that to do so would break my heart but would keep you, my Heart, safe. The fault is mine. I should pay the price.

In words and in song, in this world and all others, in time and out of it, I love you, I love you, my Heart.

\- Solas


	11. Chapter 11

Song descends upon the tree with the force of a lightning strike. The branch, though thick and ancient, bows beneath the certainty of his entry into this Strand. He has been indellicate - crude, even - in the journey he has made here. The warning bells will sound again. Music and the Author will both come snapping at his heels. 

Let them come.

For Song knows immediately that, despite all his haste and carelessness, he has not arrived in time. What he finds on the branch is a shell of what Ink was, hollowed out by the torturous Melody. Hollowed out by his own treachery, he amends. 

There is a letter in her pocket and Song takes it, even though he is terrified of it. Ink is dead, so she must have read everything; and in reading everything she will know that it is his own cowardice and impotence that killed her.

He owes it to her to read.

* * *

Song,

Congratulations. You played me flawlessly. The bait, the trap - all of it, pitch-perfect. I can’t help but wonder when the idea first occurred to you. It’s pointless to ask questions now when I’ll never read your answers, and at least this curiosity won’t hound me for long.

What a fool I was to imagine I could turn you to my side. And, oh, to think that you’ve pulled this scheme on me not once, but twice. To think you even  _ showed  _ me your first betrayal and still I let it happen again. I saw you stumble in your early infiltration and thought you weak, less dangerous than me. But this was your greatest stroke of genius: you let me imagine you as small and I shrank my vigilance to match. 

How you must have laughed at my letters. How you must be laughing now.

Let me tell you one last joke: Despite it all, I love you still. I loved you before and I love you after. If I had a moment longer I’d ask you to play your tricks on me a third time so I could fall all over again. 

Yours,   
Ink

* * *

The words are poison, but regrettably not the killing kind. Song sinks down on the branch, next to Ink’s corpse, and reads her final words to him again and again. Something cracks in the distance; something howls in the dark. Music and the Author have found him here - he knows because the sky has gone black with no stars.

He stands again, letter still clutched in his hand, as ready to die as he will ever be. 

From nowhere, a shade emerges to block Song’s path. It is not like any spirit or demon he has ever seen. It has no certain shape or form. It eludes his understanding when he tries to face it head-on and fades away entirely when he looks at it from the corner of his eye. For a moment it seems to have something like a head, which nods toward the letter in Song’s hand. For a moment, it has a hand that reaches out like a request.

Song gives it Ink’s last letter. Then, the shade opens something like a mouth, and whispers a single word. 

“Run.”


	12. Chapter 12

Shadows chase Song through time. He darts backward and forward, keeping his pursuers at bay but gaining no distance from them. When he tries to take a right turn, something slams violently into him and he veers left, plummeting to a place he doesn’t recognize. 

He suspects it is a Strand that has been burned away as either discordant or non-canonical, though he isn’t certain whether it was Music or the Author who decided its irrelevance. The sky has been ripped open and Song can see the Black City as clearly as if he were walking through the Fade. He can no longer sense agents from either his side or the other, and he thinks perhaps he lost them in his fall. Exhausted from the chase, Song decides to rest here a moment. 

He stands in what remains of a village, nearly all of its structures reduced to their foundations. There are no people left, and no animals or plants either - even the grass has long since died. Song wonders if he is the only living thing left. 

He walks through the wreckage until he arrives at a building that must once have been a Chantry. Like the rest of the village, there is little left by which to identify it. But the building’s rear wall remains mostly standing and is covered in a fresco depicting the Lady on the pyre. Song approaches slowly, as the faded colors reveal an image he has seen many times. It is Andraste of course, in all her pale-skinned, rosy-cheeked, blond-haired, golden-crowned glory. But the expression … 

The expression is entirely Ink.

This Andraste doesn’t hold her palms up to the sky, stoic and ready for the fires to claim her. Nor does she cry out in tantalizing exultation, already imagining coming to the Maker’s side and the rewards that await her there. 

This Andraste laughs.

Her head is thrown back and her mouth stretched wide in a proud smile. Song can practically hear the victory in her voice. She is Andraste the Triumphant, the Prophet Unvanquished, the Lady of Defiance. She has gone to the pyre willingly, knowingly, and in so doing has conquered death. 

Beneath it all is a verse from the Canticle of Transfigurations that Song knows well. It is, of course, the version he wrote:

_For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water._   
_As the moth sees light and goes toward flame,  
She should see fire and go toward Light._

For a moment, Song isn’t certain. He has lived too many lifetimes to believe that coincidences are inherently meaningful - mostly, they’re just cosmic inevitability. But it is impossible to ignore the unlikely series of events that conspired to create this composition. And Song has always admired hope in the face of certain destruction.

If he’s right, he might be able to save her. 

If he’s wrong, he’ll certainly die.

 _Good enough odds_ , Song thinks. Then he slips, quietly as a shade, back into time.


	13. Chapter 13

Song stalks himself in the raw Fade, emerging only after the wolf has gone, to retrieve Ink’s first words:  _ Tell me I have sung to Your approval. _ He whispers them aloud as he carefully places the shredded paper in a vial he carries with him. 

In Antiva he collects blood and honey - beneath the Boeric Ocean a sliver of wood. He snatches ashes from the air in Arlathan and pilfers a perfect apple core in Val Royeaux. On a snowy balcony in the Frostbacks he finds Ink’s tears and these he collects delicately, reverently. 

When Song stands behind himself at the pond in Crestwood, he longs to shake his own shoulders. He settles for taking the barbed pebble in which Ink laid her heart bare. 

In Kirkwall he rescues a drowning postcard. Then, in Nevarra he preserves the last of a leaf. Finally, he returns to the Emerald Graves and gathers the culmination of their correspondence: first, a page torn from the poisoned book, and then Ink’s last letter that he hands to himself.

“Run,” Song advises. Fortunately, the other version of himself listens.

He has found every part of Ink that he lost, and every part of himself that he tried to forget. Song takes them to a ruined fortress in the mountains where, he hopes, the power he once channeled will come when he calls it again. With alchemy and spells unlike anything he’s attempted before, Song distills their correspondence to its basest parts. He pours boiling water over it, lets it steep, then drinks it all. The form he chooses is itself a penance; he has always hated tea.

The taste is bittersweet. How could it be anything else? But what Song takes into himself is more than the sum of their parts. It is Story and Melody, fused in a way that should not be possible. It is operatic in its depth and epical in its scope. He reads it, hears it, and it  _ changes  _ him. 

Suddenly, Song can see the lyrics that run alongside the orchestration of the world. The Story - Ink’s Story - has shared its secrets with him. In its pages he can see the treacherous path he must follow. 

There are places in the far distant past that agents do not go. This is something settled not by treaty but by desire for survival. Beyond the first page of their world’s history is a prequel they still cannot translate. To travel back to this point invites disaster - they know this much. They do not understand the form or schedule the disaster will take, but they know better than to tempt it.

Song is well past such concerns. He rushes far, far upthread and lands on an island in the middle of a lake. The water surrounding him shimmers faintly, a ghostly blue phosphorescence that provides the only illumination. Still, it’s dim enough that Song cannot see much beyond the island itself. He looks up, knowing there will be no sky. Whatever blocks it from view is much too far away for him to see.

Song treads lightly, afraid the ground itself will alert some guardian to his trespass. He is not welcome here. This place is not for him. These waters exist far below the surface of the world, their power too dangerous to touch and their waves too violent to navigate.

So why is there a rowboat waiting at the lake’s edge?

Song steps in - oh, so quietly so as not to disturb the things that slumber here - and begins to row. He doesn’t know where he’s going but he has made his way this far. The waves swell around his boat but never touch it, and the indigo iridescence floating on the water’s surface parts before him.

Just as his arms begin to ache, Song reaches a circle of boats floating in the water. At first glance he thinks them all empty, though he can see long chains that descend from each to anchor them somewhere far below. But as Song rows closer, peering into each boat in turn, he sees faces he thought long forgotten.

A woman with bright red hair. A man with an immaculately curled moustache. A Qunari with whom he loved to play chess. Each of them older than Song remembers but still perfectly recognizable. There are others, but not many. A dozen at most. 

These are the Story’s agents at the moment of their ascension. They sleep, frozen in time, ready to become something bigger than themselves in order to fight Song and others like him. There are so few of them, and Song could end the entire war by killing them here. Stories are most delicate at their inception, when they are still intangible and longing to be given definition.

The Melody stirs within him, eyeing its enemies hungrily. Once, he would have been unable to resist the urge to bend and bow to its whims. But Ink’s words echo through him:  _ I’ve bitten you and poured my words into you.  _ He feels bitten, full, with no room left for the Melody’s demands. In a moment, the hunger recedes and he moves on.

Song finds Ink’s boat and pulls his beside it.

She is grey-haired and lovely. He examines the crow’s feet at her eyes and the lines at the corners of her mouth and imagines he can hear her triumphant laughter written in them. This is the last chapter of the first draft of Ink. He only ever knew her from a distance when she looked like this. 

Song tells Ink a story.

He whispers into her ear the contents of all their letters. He reminds her of the words she tattooed on her heart. He tells her he loves her a thousand different ways and promises he will compose a thousand more if she will only live when she is given the choice. He sets all their words to music, infusing them with the Melody - the beautiful version that he hears, not the dissonance that poisons the uninitiated. They tangle themselves together until it is impossible to imagine one without the other. 

Song speaks and sings and prays. He cannot know what part of this will work, or whether it will work at all, and he’s certain he only has this one chance. Soon, the Story will surely find him and expel him from its most vulnerable place. But until it does, Song will stay. He will tell Ink all that he can and spend his final moments here, with her.

He sees the glimmering blue particles in the water circling his boat, clinging to its sides as their light shines brighter. He knows he is nearly out of time. Song reaches into Ink’s boat and gently takes her hand in his own. He presses his lips to the inside of her wrist. 

Then, Song runs again. But now the Story can sense its words within him, and it is furious at his intrusion. The Author and the rest of Story’s agents give chase and he cannot shake them, though he twists and turns erratically through time. 

Song is so desperate to escape, so certain he knows the limits of his enemies, that he doesn’t realize until too late that they have herded him directly into the waiting arms of Music.


	14. Chapter 14

Music does not offer forgiveness or second chances. Dissonant chords cannot be rehabilitated; they are simply expunged. Song is whisked away to a Strand he has never visited before and deposited unceremoniously in a cavernous prison far, far underground. He does not need to wonder why the prison is so large. He has seen what becomes of the agents Music abandons and leaves in places like this one. Eventually, his despair will expand to fill it.

This is the place where Song will slowly go mad. Music cuts him away from herself like a cancer and when she leaves, the Melody goes with her. For the first time in millennia, Song is alone with the thoughts in his head. 

It is unbearable, and it’s only been five minutes.

Song knows what happens next. The longer he is here, the more desperate he will become to hear the Melody again. He will sing it to himself, in his head and outloud, but what he sings will be an imperfect memory. Music’s abandonment has left him tone deaf. His pitch will become sharp. His tempo will become irregular. In time, he will forget how to harmonize completely. It is Music’s cruelest and only punishment.

It is unbearable, and it’s only been five hours.

Ages from now, his desire to sing again will become the only thing he knows. Song’s deformed melody will resound through the deepest places, calling to other monsters as like always calls to like. One day, they will find him. And then all the broken things that live deep within the earth will sing their gruesome song together.

It is unbearable, and it’s only been five days.

Song loses count after that. Losing count in and of itself is a bad sign. It means that whatever was left of the metronome inside his brain is dying. It means his connection to time is unraveling.

He can see almost nothing, but he hears the movement when it begins. He squints into the darkness, willing the eyes of this body to remember that they do not truly need light to see. A few paces away, a little boulder uncurls itself. For a second Song wonders if his mind is further gone than he thought. But then the confusing sight resolves itself into a tiny, scaly creature that walks on its hind legs and carries its front legs pointlessly ahead of it. It shimmies and hops toward him, its lamprey mouth filled with teeth that chitter and echo through the cavern.

Of the deaths Songs would choose for himself, being eaten alive by a swarm of deepstalkers is not one of them. However, compared to what awaits him, this seems like the greatest mercy he can imagine. He reaches out his hands toward his impending salvation, and he smiles as the sluggish tempo in his head hurries to match the staccato of the creature’s claws tapping on the stone.

The deepstalker is close enough that Song catches the carrion on its breath before he notices the blue ribbon tied in a bow around its neck. He grabs the end of the ribbon between his fingers and pulls it as the creature darts backwards. For a moment they simply stare at one another, but then the bow unties itself and the deepstalker hops away, growling its objections.

Song presses the ribbon to his lips. It smells of vanilla, embrium, and snowflakes swirling past frosted glass. He stretches the length of it out before him and he reads. The salutation alone spreads a grin across his face so wide that it pinches the corners of his eyes and tears spill down his cheeks.

* * *

My beloved Song Of Loyalty And Strength,

I’ve missed you. And not just this (wonderful, beautiful) version of you that I know now. But the smaller one I knew before. At first I wasn’t certain if you had carved him away completely. I wondered if you were ashamed of him and who he used to be. I wondered if you were unhappy remembering a time when you were small, as I once was. 

Then I heard the song you wrote for me - for us.

(Ugh, again I’ve hardly begun and already lost the plot, so let me try to get back around to it!) 

First things first. My last letter wasn’t for you. Well it was and it wasn’t; it’s complicated. I wrote it thinking Music would get to it first. It seemed like the best way to convince her that you’d done your job perfectly. I did tell you I had plenty of very good lies left to be told.

But a lot of that letter was true. Of course, that’s how all the best lies work. For example: I do still love you. Very much. Desperately, even. More than I did an hour ago, and then more than I loved you a day ago. How much will I love you tomorrow? 

You destroyed me and you saved me, and in some ways it was all the same. 

The good news is I’ve made a real mess of things. I hastily tied off a bunch of plot threads we’d left hanging. Neither side can claw its way back into them now. The Author’s going to be trying to make sense of it for eons and he’ll have to do it with Music ringing in his ears (and we all know - especially you, right at this moment - how unnerving that experience can be). 

I’m sorry it took me a minute to find you. I had some other business that I needed to wrap up first. (Speaking of which, sorry if that shove into the retconned Strand was a little harder than strictly necessary - I was feeling a bit over-enthusiastic.) 

I know you must be worried about being cut off from the Melody. The funny thing is, in saving me you also already saved yourself. You inoculated me against its poison, and now I’ll do the same for you. The music you sang to me is soaring in my head and my veins. But it’s no longer the same Melody that tortured me and bridled you. This is something entirely different: a song of our own creation. Words and music that you combined and composed within my heart. 

Find me, and I’ll sing you your freedom.

Follow Chuckles. That’s the deepstalker. I named him after you and I know you’ll see this as the compliment it is. I’ve made a bit of a hole in space and time and he can show you the way out. You’ll have to crawl a little but I assume that isn’t too much to ask.

It’s our time, Song. In all of history we’ve never been able to truly say that - the moments we shared were always borrowed, stolen. But now, finally and forever, the future belongs to you and to me and I can’t wait to see what we’ll write together.

Love,  
Ink


End file.
